


You were supposed to be there (holding my hand)

by ElizabethisjustaKitten



Series: A Study in Affinity [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 4x01 remedy, Angst, M/M, Sherlock lost in his feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethisjustaKitten/pseuds/ElizabethisjustaKitten
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in a hospital after a nasty case and John is not there. Panic follows...(Or the one where Sherlock forgets that small human beings need constant attention and John doesn't sleep for days.)





	

There's a chill creeping down his left foot and smell of chlorine fills his nostrils. His head is somewhat heavy and feels like wrapped in cotton balls. 

Sherlock wakes up in an unfamiliar room. One of his feet is peeking from under the white, shaggy blanket and white walls remind him something he can’t really identify yet. There are machines by his left side and there's that cold creeping up on him by his right. Something is missing.

He can't quite put his finger on what it is.

  
He has full sets of limbs, heart is working, there's a needle stuck into his left hand, clumsily attached to a tube and an IV. Also there's a machine monitoring his heartbeat.

_Hospital then._ That seems fair.

He can't really remember which case this was. Something to do with medical supplies and a ferret. Maybe a hamster. He never really could find a difference between the two.  
He is pretty sure he found the drugs. Drugs smuggled in ferrets? Drugs on a ferris wheel? Hamster wheel? Is there such a thing as a hamster wheel?

He can't think like this...

Everything is so out of focus. And not the good, drunk kind where everything blurs into soft images of colours and noises and warmth. No, this is smudged and hazy and harsh on his eyes. Somewhat mushy he could say.  Of course he's been drunk only once in a very long time with a person he rather enjoyed to be with, so that could have something to do with it. Or does it? He can’t really reach to his mind and remember how being drunk is supposed to feel like. 

No, he needs his deduction.

He pulls the IV needle out and spike of pain bolts him into presence. 

Hamster wheels then. Great. That he can remember.

Also there was a knife and possible new drug and it got into his system somehow. Did he taste it?

No, he is an idiot, but not that big. The knife. Laced with it.

_Clever._

Sherlock turns his head to the right. There’s a metal chair. Not much comfortable by the looks of it. Paint is chipping on the backrest. And something is amiss. He knows what it is now. His own tightly pulled lips suggest him that much.

John is missing.

He should be right there, on that chair. Did something happen?

Sherlock tries to lift his heavy head and look around. The curtains on the window are closed. Good.

The room is small, very dimly lit, with machines and all the useless stuff hooked to him.

And he is in his favourite pyjamas.

So John was here. Only he would bring those. Sherlock remembers putting these into a wash basket a few nights before, not yet washing them. So John was back in the flat, washed his favourite pyjamas (or had Mrs. Hudson do it for him) and bring them here. Because he knew Sherlock liked these.

It's such a mundane thing to dwell on pyjamas. But feeling the soft fabric really makes him feel better. And it smells like the detergent they both use. Which reminds him...

Sherlock turns himself yet again to the chair and sniffs. The move brings a dull pain through his whole body.

There's nothing. No faint smell of tea leaves, no cheap cologne or soapy smell that John caries by him through the day. Of course, sometimes he uses Sherlock's expensive shower gel and thinks he wouldn't notice. It's rather nice when he smells a bit like Sherlock. It's homey and quite pleasant experience and Sherlock likes to think they both enjoy it.

And by now, Sherlock would kill for a cuppa from John. He makes him Breakfast tea with just a faint hint of milk. Of course, he drinks it mostly on evening so there's no reason to call it Breakfast tea. He drinks coffee on breakfast of course.

Sherlock makes himself stretch his hand onto the chairs seat. It's cold and harsh under his fingers and he flexes them as if he is reaching for something.  
But there's no one there.

_Did something happen to his John?_

A spike of adrenaline jolts trough his body and monitor by his left beeps.

Sherlock knows he needs to calm himself before he alerts nurses. He doesn't really want to deal with anyone yet. He needs to investigate by his own first.  
So the possibilities are really endless. John leaving him finally and losing his temper after he did something incredibly stupid yet again. Yes, that seems like a fair game here.  
Or maybe he just went for a cuppa.

No, that seems to take an awfully lot time.

He hates to admit it, but he feels betrayed. John should be there by his bed. That's what Sherlock would do. Sit there for days, waiting.

That seems awfully like those horrible romantic movies John loves to watch. But it's practical really. With the lifestyle they tend to live and so many people after them, they have to look for one another. It's really easy these days to slip something deadly into an IV. Sherlock would feel so much safer with a doctor by his side.

And John's not there. It's underwhelming really. He was probably out of it for a few days now. How long has he been here? Did John move with his life?

That seems ridiculous. His muscles would atrophy so much more if he'd lie there for a long time. Days it is.

The chill is back and it's probably a draft from opening doors somewhere. Sherlock tries to straighten his blanket and fails miserably. The blanket is thick and weirdly shaped and his hands are clumsily sliding over it. He would very much love to just ask John now. It would take him merely seconds and Sherlock likes when John takes care of him.  
It’s very novelty for him to think about likes and dislikes. It would be ridiculous to start categorizing it now, wouldn’t it?

So he rather enjoys tea from John.

And he likes how John smells ( _of him_ ). Also he very much takes joy in the feeling of John and the warming presence he represents.

There are of course other things he delights in near John. Like his reassuring smile and how he corrects his gaucherie. The way he takes pride in him, his mostly salt and no pepper hair, the way he looks at a problem with heart rather than brain and feeling of his hand in his.

He really does rejoice in that feeling. It gives him a high never tasted before. Like shot of cocaine in the morning. Much like putting a new batteries into half broken toys.

They do live in the world of toys now. Rosie is in that age when she starts to discover usability of various objects. Sherlock very much dislikes that. She mostly takes delight in smashing Sherlock’s precious possessions against various surfaces to observe the results. Her first experiment of sorts. No conclusions and written thesis on this problem yet, but they will get to it.

And he got side-tracked again. 

So John is not here and he doesn't like that. He could call him but he doesn't see his phone anywhere. And would John even pick up? 

He can feel his heart racing again. John would never leave him like that, would he? He would talk about it first. Or he'd leave a note. 

Because that's what people do.

Leave a note.

Moriarty did and Mary did and Sherlock even did himself. So John would never left him without scribbling a few words on a hospital branded paper.

So he settles into the mattress, trying to spread theories in his head and any excuse John could have to leave him here to wake up alone. And there's so many and any of them is a worst case scenario.

There's that faint possibility nagging at his brain that something could happen to him, but he dismisses it out of hand. Just thinking about that possibility in his currently clouded head gets complicated. Because at one hand, if something happened to John, he would have a valid excuse why he is currently not standing there, fussing over Sherlock and recounting all of the ways he could have died during this case. But if something happened to John, Sherlock would hate it and he would hate himself, so he rather consider the possibility, that John just doesn't care enough to be there, than just thinking about any other scenario that could lead to John injured as well or possibly dead.

To clear his head and focus on something else he just rings the button at his side and patiently waits for some poor nurse that comes in to take care of him. They try to get the IV reattached again and Sherlock complies just to pull it out minutes later when the nurse closes doors after them.

It’s a while after when Lestrade comes in, with questions and lectures on how not to get killed next time because it's a lot of papers to fill.

Sherlock just tunes him out for a moment, closing his eyes and Lestrade shuts up after a while.

"You've been out four days, Sherlock. We were worried," He says finally, with a note of compassion in his voice.

_Not worried enough. Or John wasn't_ , Sherlock thinks for himself.

"Molly was here every morning. And I used to pop in after work. Mrs. Hudson even brought you fresh flowers. Did you even notice?"

And there's indeed a bouquet of pink carnation and one solitary gardenia on the table in the far corner.

"She brought me poison, great," he just mutters and ignores Lestrade’s very puzzled look. Every fool knows that carnations have poisoned leaves, right?

"She meant well. She was worried Sherlock. You need to stop throwing yourself into harm’s way. Wait for the police next time, for fucks sake!"

"There was a perpetrator. He was getting away. I stopped him."

"And got yourself to the hospital for four days and counting..."

Sherlock has no excuse for that, so he just shuts up. Somewhere in that mind palace of his he will find the best comeback to that, but right now he has too much drugs in his system to react to Lestrade’s overall stupidity.

"John was worried sick, Sherlock!" Lestrade continues. And that hurts. Sherlock really wasn’t expecting such a low blow now.

_Not enough to be here_ , Sherlock just thinks, feeling his whole body stiffen during Lestrade's words. Lestrade -as per usual- does not notice.

Sherlock’s whole body burns with desire to ask where John is. But he retains from it, telling himself that it's foolish to ask Lestrade that question. They are not that great friends with John for him to know. And yet he needs to ask, if only to get inconclusive answer. He needs to know what John Watson thinks is more important than being the first face Sherlock sees the moment he wakes up.

Only he doesn't ask and Lestrade leaves half an hour later with Sherlock statement about the case, leaving him only with empty heart and no information about John's whereabouts.

Sherlock thinks about how very stupid and needy he feels in that moment, powerless against the fact, that he is left on a hospital bed and the only help he is willing to accept is not there.

 

It takes another two hours for John to come. Not that Sherlock is counting. He pretty much given up hope. He just notices.

He doesn't expect any comfort from him, not a word of compassion. That's why it strikes him almost dead when John opens the door to his hospital room and his first words are: "You bloody idiot!"

He just sighs it under his breath, his face a contradiction of his words, because he is smiling, still holding onto the door knob.

Sherlock just holds his gaze, breath catching in his throat for a moment. John looks tired. Actually physically tired, like he aged years during the few days.

“Nice of you to come,” Sherlock says, but his words are dripping irony all over. John tenses in the door, turning his hands into fists. His expression changes, replacing smile with confusion.

"You were supposed to be here!" Sherlock whispers after a moment of silence. 

John just squeezes his fists even tighter. 

"I have Rosie to take care of," his tone is apologetic and soft. He looks miserable with dark circles under his eyes and a twitch in his shoulder are a sign he didn't slept well these past few days. Or at all. 

"You were supposed to be here," Sherlock repeats. But it's not a complaint this time. It sounds like a plea. He didn't mean to say it in that tone and his own voice betrayed him.

He woke up confused and scared and John was supposed to be there. On that chair by his bed, talking to him or just sitting there, holding his hand. That’s how people do it in the movies, isn't it? That's what you are supposed to do when somebody you care about is in the hospital. 

And John wasn't there and, even if Sherlock would never admit it, he was terrified. He wasn't terrified that John left him again or was mad at him and wasn't coming back, he was just afraid that John doesn't care anymore. And it was such an absurd fear yet it was. That tells Sherlock a lot about how he feels about John and the trust issues he should probably work on.

But he feels relief flowing through him now from John’s sudden presence. Warm spreads into the very last molecule of him and fills him with tingly feeling of anticipation and excitement. The proverbial butterfly in your stomach. He doesn’t really understand why.

And yet, he doesn't say anything at all. 

John slides at the chair next to him, rubbing a hand on his face. He looks so tired and yet he just sighs and lets his hand fall on the bed for Sherlock to take. 

"I'm sorry, Rosie is having her teeth come out and she is screaming with pain, that poor thing. Mrs. Hudson was a bit helpless so she called."

_So what?_ Sherlock thinks. And he knows that it's a bad thing to say so he doesn’t say it out loud (oh, how much he changed with John. He wouldn't think twice about saying it few years back).

He remembers how he got into the hospital. He screamed with pain too. 

And then he rewinds a bit, realising he got side-tracked. John left just to calm Rosie down. Probably to help ease the pain a bit. He was here before that. For how long? 

"So the four days..." Sherlock starts but John just yawns and his eyes flutter. He rubs his eyes.

"How long did you not sleep?" Sherlock asks instead. 

John just looks at him and his eyes are underlined with blood.

"Between sitting here in this chair and popping back to calm Rosie down there wasn’t much space to take a nap, Sherlock.“ 

And Sherlock understands. He finally takes his hand, curls his fingers around John wrist and tucks on it. John looks at him with confusion and Sherlock simply lifts the hospital comforter a bit inviting John to lie down.

John hesitates, but Sherlock gives him the most firm look he can muster in that situation and tugs on his hand again. He is ready to open his mouth and give John a lecture about health risks of insomnia when John finally surrenders and slides into bed beside him. 

It's crammed there in that small bed, but Sherlock sacrifices as much as possible to get John comfortable. 

John lies on his shoulder and Sherlock has to have one hand around his waist so he won’t slide down since half of his body is not in bed anymore. But John looks comfortable. More comfortable than Sherlock seen him in a long time. 

“I’m glad you are okay,” John just whispers, settling into Sherlock’s embrace.

“I’m glad you are here,” Sherlock responds, half-heartedly regretting his words and hopping John won’t remember them in the morning.

"People will talk if they find us," John mutters already half out of it. In contradiction to his words he snuggles closer and doesn't seem to mind. 

"They already do," Sherlock just smiles and settles his head beside John, his nose almost in his hair since he is taller. He can feel John's even breath on his chin and one of John's hands curled between them, providing last barrier in the intimate closeness they are in.  After few minutes John is already sleeping, completely curled into Sherlock. 

It's the first time, as Sherlock realises, that John is sleeping that close to him.  And it feels kind of nice. 


End file.
